Book Excerpt from A Theology for the Rest of Us (Yavelberg): The Casinos: Tell Me You'll Love Me...

 

3 “Tell me you’ll love me for a million years. Then you can tell me we tried.” (The Casinos)

For most people, this may be the most important topic in this book. “There are no atheists in a foxhole.” In other words, people often look to God and religion in times of crisis; in times when they recognize and acknowledge their own fragility and ultimate helplessness. As the Danish existentialist Soren Kierkegaard describes it, these are the times Of Fear and Trembling (1843). Yes, a crisis is not necessarily a bad thing. A crisis can be a wake-up call—the understanding, finally, that everything is not all right just as it is and that change, sometimes radical change, is necessary. But a crisis can also lead to terror, the terror of a past that is no longer viable and a future that is most uncertain, and terror can lead to paralysis and paralysis can lead to despair.

The benefits of theology in such times have not been historically all that clear. In fact, the Deism of the 17th and 18th Centuries, the Enlightenment, essentially proposed the god of the “banquet in waiting;” a dark, elegantly furnished ballroom, whereby there is a god who created the entire universe and all its intricate scientific laws and principles but afterward withdrew and now does not get involved in that universe or interact with people in any way. This god set the universe in motion, the “Prime Mover,” and then went wherever gods go when their work is finished. This god makes sense in accounting for the rationality of the natural laws permeating the universe. This god makes no sense to a poor mother grieving over the loss of her child, a young man whose hopes have been dashed by some freakish, crippling accident, a once-thriving town that has been devastated by an earthquake, a….well, that list is endless. One who is tempted to quote a teleological argument as a comfort in such circumstances would be well advised to keep quiet.

The Taoism of China, which idealistic types laud as epitomizing all that is peace and harmony, fares no better and needs to be recognized for what it is. The Tao is the source of all dualities. The Taoist symbol includes BOTH the light and the dark in equal measure. Consequently, as hard as it is to imagine, the Tao incorporates both caring and apathy, compassion and anger, peace and war, etc. Evil is as much a part of the universe as the good. Since all dualities are interdependent, eliminating the evil means eliminating the good as well. In this context, the grieving mother of a lost child may find the Tao more confusing than consoling

 It gets worse. If a brilliant but apathetic deity is of no consolation to those who are grieving, imagine the impact of, say, a Jonathan Edwards. An American Colonial Protestant pastor, his depiction of the divine makes the Deist or Taoist look positively soothing,

The God that holds you over the pit of hell, much as one holds a spider, or some loathsome insect, over the fire, abhors you, and is dreadfully provoked. His wrath towards you burns like fire; he looks upon you as worthy of nothing else. (Edwards, 1741, p. 15)

As horrific as such imagery may be, it appears there is something of the human psyche that responds to such “fire and brimstone” throughout the ages. Maybe whatever misfortune one is confronting becomes more manageable if one believes it is the deserved result of sin. Nevertheless, it is difficult to move forward in hope when one is inevitably doomed to fail because of one’s sinful nature.

            The ancient Persian Zoroastrians avoid problems of divine apathy and/or fury by asserting there are two, eternally competing forces at work in the universe. Throughout the eons of time, the pristine Ahura Mazda marshals all the angelic powers of good versus the demonic minions of the repulsive Angra Mainyu. At the end of days, however, there will be a savior, the Saoshyant—yes, born of a virgin—who will defeat the forces of evil and everyone will be purified. Even so, it seems highly unlikely that a grieving mother of a lost child will find much comfort in the notion she must simply be patient for all eternity.

Western monotheistic religions have the same dilemma. If God created the universe, God has to be responsible for everything in the universe. Indeed, God Himself proclaims: “I form the light and create darkness. I make peace and create evil. I, the Lord, do all these things.” (Is 45:7) In Islam, too, there is the controversy as to whether Allah creates both good and evil or that Allah just creates the good, whereas the evil comes from man (Asar, 2019). As more than one skeptic has observed: “If God is good and all-powerful, why is there evil? If God cannot prevent evil, He is not all-powerful. If God can prevent evil but does not, He is not good.” Therefore, the case against DI’s caring is a strong one. The proposition that DI does care seems salvageable only by compromising DI’s power.

But maybe the situation is not so, well, black and white. The meaning of terms like good and evil seem simple enough, but simplicity is often misleading. Again, the Taoist symbol is black and white, but the two are not distinct halves. Rather, they are equal, but in a flowing motion, with the center of each in the midst of the other.

After all, what exactly do we mean by the term evil? It seems obvious that the term refers to “bad stuff,” but bad—like all dualities—is a relative term. It assumes the follow-up question “bad for whom or what?” For example, I have seen any number of Disney-type stories or fables where some animal is “good, sweet, and innocent” and some other animal is “evil, mean, and criminal.” Take the well-known story of the “Three Little Pigs.” Here these good, sweet, innocent pigs are defending themselves against a wolf who wants to eat them, a wolf who is prepared to “huff and puff and blow your house down” to do so. The last pig saves the three of them by having built a sturdy home of brick that withstands all the wolf’s huffing and puffing. Having outwitted the wolf, the pigs celebrate and the dejected wolf goes away. The stories generally end at this point, and the reader invariably smiles contentedly with the thought that justice has prevailed and the evil has been defeated.

That makes sense insofar as the pigs are concerned, but what about the wolf? The wolf goes away hungry and, assuming the wolf has his own family, it will go hungry as well. Is that “good?” If the wolf’s wife was telling the tale, she would likely lament the state of a universe where pigs are devilishly clever and, as a result, where she and her children need to starve.

The truth is that “good” and “evil” depend on the perspective of an individual. If one can attain the much broader perspective of the Tao—perceiving the predicaments of the pigs and the wolf, then one can develop compassion for both. Ultimately all life survives by consuming itself, though it may appear as if “this” is eating “that.”  “This” and “that” are all “life.”

Of course, again, such an insight may not be of any comfort to that grieving mother who lost a son. However, helping that mother develop something of that broader perspective just might be. While the Buddha contributed little to the metaphysical discussion regarding teleology, it is here in the case of broadening one’s perspective that the Buddha can be especially helpful.

The story is told of a woman who is agonizing with grief over the loss of her son. She approaches the Buddha desperate for his help. Simply put, she wants the Buddha to bring her son back to life. The Buddha considers her request and, after some thought, he says softly, “I can bring your son back to life. For me to do so, you must go through the village and bring me a mustard seed from a family who has not suffered such a loss. Bring me that mustard seed and I will do as you ask” (Bjordal, 2020). The poor mother is thrilled and immediately starts going house to house, door to door, in search of that mustard seed. In so doing, she tells her tale to every household. But while everyone is sympathetic, it turns out that every household has had its own share of terrible losses. It takes a while, but the mother comes to realize such losses are common to everyone; that they are a part of life itself. She returns to the Buddha and thanks him—not because he has brought her son back to life, but because he has made her realize that she is not alone.

The fact that life in the universe depends on life eating life does not necessarily mean that DI doesn’t care. It simply means that seeing life as it is can help those who are grieving and sharing that experience in ways that only those who suffer can be essential to addressing that grief.

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